


An Even Unlikelier Prince

by PanBoleyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15656703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: After the defiance of his children, Aegon V disinherits not one but all of his sons. Which leaves him with only one possible male heir - the nephew disinherited for his sake by the Great Council.





	1. The First Moves

“I cannot let it stand, Betha,” Aegon says quietly. “This defiance - it cannot go unpunished.” 

  
  


“So you will disinherit them all? For Aerion’s son?”

  
  


“Your sister and Lord Stark write that he is nothing like his father - he’s all Cousin Daenora and we should thank the gods for it.” Though Aegon believes marrying Targaryens completely outside the family - or at least to distant kin only, in the case of the Baratheons - is the wisest course for at least another generation, he would consider marrying young Maegor to his Rhaelle, just to unite the claims. Had Maegor been a girl, she would have been Duncan’s betrothed, for the same reason. 

  
  


Not that it would have mattered with Duncan under the spell of his peasant girl. 

  
  


But he cannot marry Rhaelle to Maegor. The only way to appease Lyonel Baratheon is with a royal spouse for one of his children, and so he has given him Rhaelle. And there is Lord Tully to consider, as well…

  
  


At least he need not worry about the Tyrells and Redwynes overmuch. Apparently, young Olenna Redwyne made her move at the first opportunity, seducing Luthor Tyrell into a quick marriage. Given that until Daeron suddenly declared he was not going to marry Olenna, they’d seemed to get on quite well, Aegon can’t help but wonder if the two of them had planned it. He has some idea of what truly lies between his youngest son and his  _ best friend _ , and Olenna had not seemed to care for King’s Landing. Not that any such scheme between the two young people lessened the insult to Lord Redwyne when it first happened.

  
  


Luckily, neither Luthor nor Olenna have siblings free to marry that match what Aegon still has to offer, and so he needn’t fret there. Perhaps in the next generation…

  
  


Daeron already knows he is disinherited. He has all but disinherited himself, begging a place in the Kingsguard as soon as one becomes available. Dunk thinks he’d do good there, and he has approving things to say of Daeron’s Joffrey as well. “Put them both in white cloaks, or gold for now to keep them busy,” Aegon’s former knight-master had said. Aegon may do just that.

  
  


But Jaehaerys… 

  
  


When Betha leaves, he summons his son and his daughter. They are, by his order, not announced to his solar as the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, but simply Prince and Princess. “Father, your gentleman usher has made a mistake,” Shaera says, ever the more vocal of the two. “He did not give us our proper rank.” 

  
  


“I am afraid he did,” Aegon says evenly.

  
  


“What do you mean?” Jaehaerys says, eyes narrowing. “Father -” 

  
  


“You defied me. You were both betrothed elsewhere, yet you ran off together. I did not allow Duncan to go unpunished, and nor will I allow it for you. You are no longer my heir, Jaehaerys.” 

  
  


“You cannot do that! Duncan married a peasant. I married my sister, as a proper Targaryen should, and it is my right to succeed you now that Duncan has shamed himself so! I am the Prince of Dragonstone, I am your heir, I am -”

  
  


“You are my son,” Aegon cuts him off. “You and Shaera will be given lands; Summerhall belongs to Duncan, but I will find a seat for you. Daeron has also been disinherited for his defiance.” 

  
  


“Daeron is a  _ sword-swallower _ !” Shaera all but shrieks at him. “We have followed the ancient traditions of our house, we married for love as you and Mother did, you cannot do this to us -!”

  
  


“When your mother and I wed I was not first or second heir to the throne!” Aegon snaps, finally out of patience. “I was the fourth son of a fourth son, and at the time my uncle Aerys was still king, his heir was to be my cousin Aelor, who was married with every reason to expect children. My brother Aerion was married as well. More importantly, I was  _ not  _ elsewhere betrothed. The two of you have acted just as irresponsibly as Duncan.” 

  
  


Aegon can see both of them bracing to object, and holds up a hand to silence them. “Yes, his bride is a lowborn girl unfit to be queen, while you are both of royal blood. But that does not make the insults to the families you were to join to our own any less. That does not make you any less disobedient. Lyonel Baratheon nearly went to war over Duncan’s behavior, do you not think that the Tullys at least would have had ample reason to join him? We are lucky that the Tyrell boy and Redwyne girl took their own advantage from this mess. I have had to sacrifice your youngest sister. Rhaelle serves as cupbearer to Lord Lyonel so that he will not raise the Stormlands and entice the Tullys to rebellion.”

  
  


Aegon looks at his children, whose mulish faces are unchanged, and he finds himself disgusted. Not at their incest - Betha is disgusted by incest, Aegon merely thinks it unwise to continue the practice - but at their indifference. “Do you understand? Your  _ little sister  _ pays the price for what the rest of you have done.”

  
  


“That is what a princess is for,” Shaera says, lifting her chin. “Rhaelle must do her duty.” 

  
  


“ _ You _ were meant to do your duty, Shaera. You did not. The price of that is a crown. I will not have a successor who does not understand what duty means.”

  
  


“Then who will you have?” Jaehaerys asks. Even through Aegon’s fury, he is unsettled by the cold hatred in his second son’s eyes, even more than he is by the fury in every line of Shaera’s face. “Rhaelle’s betrothed, a Baratheon on the throne? The heir of the Conqueror’s bastard brother?”

  
  


“No,” Aegon says flatly. “My choice is no longer any concern of yours. As for the two of you, you are dismissed. I do not wish to see you until your cousin Maegor arrives from Winterfell and the family comes to greet him. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Maekar has always liked the godswood. It’s quiet here, and he can think. He isn’t certain if he truly believes in the Old Gods or not - his mother insisted that a septon be among the small household sent north with him, and though Septon --- is mostly left to tend the library, he has always taken Maekar’s religious instruction seriously. 

  
  


But he was also willing to come out here and anoint his young charge with seven oils the day that Maekar changed his name from Maegor to that of his grandfather. A re-naming could only be considered valid if it was done in the sept or in a godswood, and the nearest sept was the Sept of the Snows in White Harbour. No one had wanted such a public setting for it, in case it caused gossip, so Lord Stark had suggested he use the godswood instead.

  
  


He’d even clapped Maekar on the shoulder and called him a good lad - a warm bit of encouragement rarely seen from the Lord of Winterfell. But everyone had approved when he’d cast aside the name his father gave him. It was not a surprise, really. Who wanted another Maegor in the royal family? Especially one in a position so very like Maegor’s?

  
  


Maekar thinks he’s always known how he was passed over for the throne. His mother, living in self-imposed exile at the Eyrie with her Arryn cousins, reminds him in every letter that he should have been King. “She just wanted to be your regent,” says Lady Stark, once Melantha Blackwood. Maekar can’t say if this is true or not, but the fact remains - he has always known he technically came ahead of his Uncle Aegon. Twice over, if one views him as the grandson and heir of Rhaegel Targaryen rather than that of Maekar I. 

  
  


Maegor Targaryen - the first one, Maegor the Cruel - had had no right to the throne he claimed, and Maekar’s rights have been nullified. Yet that had not stopped the king his father named him for. Maekar grew tired of the looks thrown his way, the suspicion, the wariness. So, a new name - although given the rumors that dogged his grandfather’s steps, perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest move. Still, better Maekar than Maegor, by far.

  
  


It would be nice, to have been king. 

  
  


But how anyone thinks he could ever challenge for it now, Maekar doesn’t know. It seems like far too much trouble, anyway, and it didn’t work out so well for the Blackfyres. It didn’t even work out for Aegon II, and in the North they absolutely view him as the challenger, and his sister Rhaenyra as the heir Viserys I chose. Aegon II won, but he was broken in body and halfway in mind, and then he ended up poisoned in a wheelhouse anyway.

  
  


From Maekar’s perspective, these are not good odds.

  
  


But things are different now. It’s said that King Aegon is enraged by his children and their defiance. Only young Princess Rhaelle went calmly to Storm’s End to be a living reparation for her brother’s insult. Maekar, who has been exchanging letters with Rhaelle for years, knows that she wasn’t really so calm, but he also knows that she already likes Storm’s End better than she ever did King’s Landing. 

  
  


And Maekar, who has never even met a single one of his royal relatives - or at least, not since he was old enough to remember them - has a summons to court. 

  
  


This, in fact, is why he’s hiding out in the godswood today. His royal uncle has never summoned him. He sends politely friendly letters with a gift for each of Maekar’s name days, and Maekar dutifully writes to thank him. That has been the total sum of their communication until now, though Maekar knows Lord and Lady Stark report to the King and Queen on his progress.

  
  


So why is he being summoned now? Is it because he’s nearly a man grown, or is there more to it?

  
  


“Are you all right, Maekar?” 

  
  


Maekar looks up at the familiar voice. “I’m fine, Ed,” he says as Edwyle Stark comes to sit beside him. “Just thinking about the King’s letter.” 

  
  


“Course you are,” Ed agrees, leaning into him slightly. “My lord father thinks King Egg must have a marriage in mind for you, especially after what happened with my idiot cousins.”

  
  


“You really shouldn’t call him that.” 

  
  


“I’m only quoting my father,” Ed says, widening his grey eyes in a pantomime of innocence that makes Maekar scoff. Ed is actually two years older than he is, but far more light-hearted. The gift of having a secure future, Maekar thinks, and sometimes that makes him more than a little envious.

  
  


“Your father can call him that. They are goodbrothers and Lord Willam met the King when he was still calling himself Egg.” 

  
  


“Well, he’s my uncle by marriage, so I don’t see why I can’t call him King Egg too, or even Uncle Egg.” 

  
  


“I can’t even call him Uncle Egg, and he’s my uncle by blood.” 

  
  


“You could. You just won’t.”

  
  


“You’re impossible.” 

  
  


Ed laughs, grinning his mischievous grin. He is impossible, but he’s also one of Maekar’s dearest friends. “I’m coming with you, you know. Father says that it’s appropriate for me to meet my royal kin, and remind them that the Starks of Winterfell are their family now too. Jocelyn’s coming too, all three of us on the road together without Mother and Father to ride herd on us, what do you say?” 

  
  


Jocelyn is the same age as Maekar, and as dear a friend as her brother. She runs more than a little wild in ways that make some of the servants - mostly the ones brought north by Lady Melantha - frown in disapproval. But Lady Melantha only speaks of the last Blackwood to be a Lady Stark, declaring that her daughter is too like Black Aly and her own Aunt Betha to be tamed. Lord Willam is forever amused in his quiet way to find Jo atop one of the towers again. 

  
  


How she gets the nerve to climb like that, Maekar will never know. “I think your father is going to order me to keep you both out of trouble,” Maekar says in the driest voice he can manage.

  
  


“Oh, well, that much is obvious, isn’t it?” 

  
  


<><><>

  
  


“Will he call a Great Council?” Jaehaerys says, pacing their bedchamber. 

  
  


“He’s summoned Maegor, but he can’t mean to give him the crown, not after how mad his father was,” Shaera says. “It’s a threat, a feint. He won’t keep us dishonored like this, it’s wrong and he knows it. Mother will fight him on it, she can’t want her blood disinherited for the sake of Maegor.” 

  
  


“Mother won’t even  _ speak  _ to us since we wed,” Jaehaerys says. “If she fights for anyone to be reinstated it’ll be Daeron, given that he can say that bitch Olenna wanted their betrothal ended as much as he did so she could seduce the Tyrell idiot Father wanted to force on you,” Jaehaerys argues. “She won’t care that the only person Daeron wants in his bed is Joffrey - maybe she’ll suggest he weds Celia, or one of our Stark cousins.” 

  
  


“He can’t reinstate Daeron ahead of you,” Shaera insists. “No one would stand for it unless it was decided by another Great Council. And he can’t call another of those, because two in a row to decide succession would be a disaster for our house. It would make the lords think they have the right to choose a king, that right of inheritance means nothing. And the right is  _ yours _ , Jaehaerys.” 

  
  


Jaehaerys doesn’t answer, and Shaera goes to him, catching her husband round the waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. “You will be King after Father, Jaehaerys. We will make sure of it, one way or another. We did right where even Father did not, returning to the proper traditions of our family. The gods will reward us for that, and if they are laggardly, well… We shall have to help them.” 

  
  


Shaera has not told anyone that she’s missed her courses. It’s only been once, and she has never been as regular as her mother explained most women are, so she does not dare raise false hope, not yet. But if she is with child, if that child is a boy, then surely Father will set aside this ridiculous plan of his. He’s just lashing out because they refused to cooperate with him. But she and Jaehaerys are as in love as he and Mother, and they have tradition on their side.

  
  


As for Maegor, he’s a boy. Just a boy, and the son of a vicious madman. His grandfather Rhaegel was half-mad too, if gentle with it. Who could want such a prince as their heir? (She will concede that Maegor  _ is  _ a prince, but barely even that.)

  
  


But they will need to make plans, they will need allies. Shaera knows she and Jaehaerys are tolerated, not really liked, so that will simply have to change. 

  
  


<><><>

  
  


They sail south from White Harbour, in an echo of how Maekar came to the North when he was five years old. He can only just remember setting sail from Gulltown, and how White Harbour had come up over the horizon, the Wolf’s Den and the Sept of the Snows rising before their ship as they had approached.

  
  


They will stop at Gulltown on the way there, says the captain, a fierce looking redheaded man with sharp green eyes. Black Betha is a ship of the royal navy, and Maekar thinks her captain must make a better fighter than he does a man meant to transport a minor prince. His first mate, with hair curly as a Tyrell’s but black as any Baratheon’s, is much friendlier, telling Maekar, Edwyle, and Jocelyn tales of all the ports they’ve visited. He moves with such ease that it takes Maekar a day to realize one of his boots hides a wooden leg.

  
  


“I think we should forget King’s Landing and go to the Jade Sea, what do you say?” Edwyle asks after one of these stories.

  
  


“I think that would probably be treason,” Maekar says ruefully. “But what I’d really like to do is avoid Gulltown.” At Gulltown, they will collect his lady mother, and Maekar doesn’t know how to feel about that. He takes after his mother, he knows, the same dark hair with only a streak of Targaryen silver-gold through it, though his eyes are a proper Targaryen purple where his mother’s are grey.

  
  


He looks like her, and he’s been told his temperament is more like hers - or, rather,  _ not  _ like his father’s, thus everyone assumes he must take after his mother. But Princess Daenora writes letters that are sharp and imperious in tone, and Maekar doesn’t think of himself that way. So perhaps he’s just someone else, he can’t say. But his mother has always been fierce in the matter of his rights, and whatever he’s been summoned for, he expects that she will want to push her cousin and goodbrother to make Maekar his heir. 

  
  


At Gulltown, Maekar is proven entirely right. Daenora strides onto the ship as if she owns it, head held high and her dark hair braided in a circlet around her head, silver chains woven into it so that her very hair looks like a crown. Maekar feels like a mouse watching a cat, eyeing his mother as she looks around for him. 

  
  


“Maegor!” She crosses to him,, taking his face in her hands. “Every inch the young prince, I see those Northern savages haven’t ruined you.” 

  
  


“My name is Maekar, Mother. I have changed it with a septon’s blessing.”

  
  


“Maekar?” Daenora Targaryen looks her son over with an assessing gaze; Maekar tries to hold calm and composed under it. He isn’t certain that he succeeds, but no one can say he has not tried. “Hmm. Your grandfather is not, perhaps, the best of namesakes, but he is a better one than the king your father chose. Maekar, the Second of His Name. It sounds well enough.” 

  
  


_ I am not the heir, Mother. Or at least I wasn’t, and we don’t know that reinstating me is why Uncle Aegon summoned me. _ But Maekar doesn’t say it. He doesn’t think it would do him the least bit of good. Whatever his uncle wants, they will know it soon enough, and his mother won’t be moved before then.


	2. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northern party arrives at King's Landing, and a group from the Stormlands is coming too. Meanwhile, Aegon and Betha continue to struggle with the new necessities they face.

Aegon knows there will be trouble from what he’s done. But there are reasons for it. One is simply that his lords already consider him weak. Now that his and Betha’s plans for a web of alliances have failed, he must appear as a man fully willing to discipline wayward children if he cannot prevent their antics. Another is that… His father had expected young Maegor to succeed him, had spoken to Aegon of his plans for his grandson’s minority more than once, in case there was need. Aegon was to have been his nephew’s mentor and advisor, his Regent and perhaps one day his Hand.

  
  


It isn’t that Aegon regrets that the Council selected him, but it’s also true that he feels this may please his father’s shade. His father had hoped that the good he’d once seen in Aerion - his skill at arms, his charm when he bothered to use it - would be there in his son without the vicious madness that overtook Aerion more and more over the years. Having Daenora as Maegor’s mother, someone who did not quite have charm but did have an intelligence that Aerion could never hope to match, seemed to ensure that the son would be better than the father.

  
  


And there’s another issue, of course. Aegon still wishes to bind high lords to his plans. Lord Lyonel is with him again - he’s very fond of Rhaelle, and it seems that his daughter Almena counts herself well shot of Duncan, so now that honor is satisfied, Lord Lyonel is the Laughing Storm again. It’s enough that Aegon is reasonably certain he can rely on the Baratheons. 

  
  


But who will ever trust Jaehaerys? Or, rather, Jaehaerys and Shaera, because Aegon is no fool, he knows very well that his daughter is the stronger half of that partnership. Duncan took his punishment without objection, and if his Jenny weren’t a peasant Aegon could probably have made the punishment less comprehensive and hoped to use his grandchildren in alliances instead. But his second son and elder daughter will not admit to any wrong. No, they proudly insist that they are carrying on as true Targaryens. 

  
  


But his nephew is kin to Lord Arryn. He has been the ward of Lord Stark since he was a little boy. Aegon must select the right bride for his nephew, one who will bring even more connections. If he succeeds, it will severely limit any moves Shaera and Jaehaerys may make. 

 

Aegon must be prepared to discredit his own children if he is to have any hope of leaving Westeros better than he found it. His nephew is his last chance for an heir who will take on some of what is necessary, and that means Aegon must be as ruthless as the cruelest of his forebears, should the need arise for it. He must treat Jaehaerys and Shaera as untrustworthy malcontents, as if they are Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen reborn. He must even keep careful watch on Duncan and Daeron, must encourage them to back their cousin over their siblings, or else discredit them too.

  
  


It had all seemed so simple, when he and Betha came to the throne. Had Aegon not spent years wandering Westeros as Dunk’s squire Egg? Did he not have a deep understanding of life from the highest castles to the poorest hovels? His knowledge, the plans he and Betha made for alliance and reform, it all should have worked. It should have been enough. But there was so much he didn’t know, so much neither of them predicted, and so now he’s left to salvage something from the mess by any means necessary.

  
  


Now, that means plotting against his own children. How has it come to this?

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Daeron, as the new Commander of the City Watch, is the one designated to meet his cousin first on the docks of King’s Landing. With Jeremy at his side, they wait on horseback as the ship approaches, talking in low voices. The rest of their men are a respectable distance back, so as long as they stay quiet, they can talk without being overheard. “Do you really think he’ll go through with it?” Jeremy is asking. 

  
  


“I think he has to. You know I don’t care - if I became King I’d have to lie with a woman, and I couldn’t even do that with Olenna.” He’s very fond of Olenna, prickly as she is, but although he’d known her almost all his life, although he had been glad at least not to marry a stranger, the idea of bedding her… 

  
  


_ “You can’t bring yourself to it, and if I have to bow and scrape to Jaehaerys and Shaera, I’ll end up putting poison in their wine. So why don’t we make the best of it, hmm? I’ll go persuade Luthor to wed me and be in the Reach where I belong, and you get to be with your Jeremy.”  _

  
  


_ “But my father needs political ties more than ever, Lenna.”  _

  
  


_ “Hush, Daeron, you idiot. You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging entirely, did you? You tell me who you need the Reach to support, and between my brother and my future husband, I’ll make sure you get what you need. And you, find a prince or princess who doesn’t like their own sort to marry one of my children one day, and we’ll call it even.” _

  
  


Daeron hasn’t told his father about that yet, because in truth he welcomed the anger. Not because he enjoyed being in disgrace, but because he would be unfit as a king. A king who cannot stomach even the thought of how one must produce heirs, who knows that going in, would only cause a succession crisis. But he also does not want Jaehaerys and Shaera to rule. Strangely, given their firm belief in the tradition of Targaryen incest, his siblings are otherwise fiercely devout - mayhaps  _ because  _ of it, as if to make up for something the Faith only tolerates because they have done so too long to stop - and they know his proclivities. 

  
  


He is protected from the worst consequences by his royal blood. But Jeremy… Jaehaerys left to his own devices is likely only to banish Jeremy, from court if not from Westeros, and bar Daeron from ever seeing him again. But if Shaera has the final say, she’d see her brother’s husband dead. 

  
  


“Father has to,” he says again. “And we need him to.” 

  
  


“Well, as to that, if he does reinstate your brother, we’ll just run off together, hmm?” Jeremy teases, though there’s seriousness under the lighthearted words. 

  
  


“Agreed, but you’ll forgive me for being relieved we may not have to. I didn’t like the thought of shirking even more responsibility.”

  
  


“Always the good son, your mother says. Except this one time. Speaking of the well-behaved ones, how’s Rhaelle? I know you’ve had a letter from her.” 

  
  


Daeron smiles, ducking his head. Rhaelle is the one who witnessed the vows he and Jeremy made, in the godswood at midnight - they are a bare ten months apart, he and Rhaelle, and have ever been close as twins. She’s always liked Jeremy, always been willing to find ways to help her brother and his love to be together. In return, Jeremy is as fond of her as he is of his own sisters. “Well, you know she’s been writing to Maegor for years. She never talked much about it, even to me, but she wanted to let me know more now. She had good things to say, and one curious one - he calls himself Maekar, not Maegor. Says he had a renaming ceremony and everything.” 

  
  


“Well, that was clever of him. Does he know why he’s been summoned?” 

  
  


“No, and apparently he’s very nervous. But our Stark cousins are with him. I’m looking forward to meeting them all, myself.” 

  
  


“Well, I think you’re about to. Come on, can’t let it be said we didn’t do this properly,” Jeremy laughs, spurring his horse onward as the Black Betha docks and a party dismounts. Daeron recognizes his imperious Aunt Daenora - she visits court occasionally, and she and Aunt Daella are a terrifying force when they so choose. 

  
  


He hopes Aunt Daella will come too, because they are the only ones who have ever been able to quell Shaera’s imperious cruelties. Well, Mother can, but Shaera never lets Mother see the worst of it. Also, Daeron quite likes his Dayne cousins, and should like to see them. Perhaps one of them will marry Maekar.

  
  


Pushing aside the idle speculation, Daeron turns his gaze to the rest of the party. Maekar has the same rich brown hair as his mother, a trait he knows they inherited from Alys Arryn, his father’s aunt-by-marriage. There are two others with them, with the dark hair and long faces of Starks, though the girl’s hair curls wildly about her shoulders just like Daeron’s mother’s, or Rhaelle’s.

  
  


Daeron dismounts and Jeremy follows suit, shadowing Daeron as he approaches his aunt and cousin, bowing to just the proper degree. He’s well trained, and Aunt Daenora likes to see good manners. She makes her courtesies, as does - Jocelyn, he remembers, this must be Jocelyn - while the boys, Maekar and Edwyle, bow. 

  
  


“Daeron, you’re looking well,” Aunt Daenora says, coming forward to kiss him on both cheeks. Daeron returns the gesture, and has to hide a grin at the bewildered look on Maekar’s face. He turns to Maekar next and to the Starks flanking him on either side, two wolves to defend a young dragon. 

  
  


“Well met, cousins,” he says, allowing the grin to spread across his face now. After all, looking the three of them over, he means every word. 

  
  


<><><>

  
  


“Have you any idea what your father intends, lass?” 

  
  


Rhaelle looks up at Lord Lyonel - even with both of them ahorse, he towers over her - and shrugs. “He said he disowned all my brothers for their disobedience, so… I don’t know, not for certain.”

  
  


“He’s summoned Aerion’s boy from the North,” Lord Lyonel continues. “By usual inheritance, he’d be King now, that boy, if the Council hadn’t said otherwise. Would your father make him heir, do you think?” 

  
  


“He can’t marry Almena even if Father does,” Rhaelle says, because one of the first things she learned at Storm’s End was that Lyonel Baratheon respects anyone who is direct and honest with him, no matter their age or sex. “Maekar and I write, he’s not so much younger than I am. A bit too young.” And they both know Almena doesn’t want to marry anyone anyway. What Rhaelle knows that Almena’s father does not is that the only person Almena would marry is Celia Tully. 

  
  


Rhaelle thinks of Daeron and his Jeremy in the Red Keep godswood, and decides that if Celia is still at court, she might have some suggestions for them. After all, they’ve both always been more her older sisters than Shaera ever was. Olenna was more like a wicked older friend, not  _ quite  _ warm enough to be sisterly.

  
  


“I’m not greedy enough to expect two royals to marry my children,” Lord Lyonel huffs, though he’s more amused than irked, Rhaelle knows. “But we know nothing of the boy except that he was raised by Northmen. Does he even worship the Seven?”

  
  


“Oh yes, they made sure of that. A septon was sent north with him from the Vale.” 

  
  


“Hmm. I suppose that will serve.”

  
  


Rhaelle, who pays nothing more than lip-service to the Seven - like Daeron, she prefers her mother’s gods - wisely does not comment on this. “You supported my father at the Great Council, but you would see my cousin inherit now?” she asks instead, proceeding more carefully with this topic. 

  
  


“I would - perhaps. I want the measure of this boy. Your oldest brother, for all I can’t forgive  _ him  _ even now I’m reconciled to your father, I’ll grant that he took his punishment for his peasant in good grace. Your second brother, though - now he let becoming the heir go well and truly to his head, and your father did right to disown him. A man who can’t follow and obey at need shouldn’t be allowed to command, certainly not to rule - it shows they respect no one’s authority, so why should anyone respect theirs? Princes as disobedient as your brothers are like to cause all sorts of trouble should one of them sit the Iron Throne. Your father’s bad enough with his plans that would take from the rights of his lords.” 

  
  


“My father has a great care for the smallfolk. How could he not, having lived amongst them for so long?” Rhaelle says, her voice careful. As it happens, she thinks her father’s reforms are a  _ good  _ idea, but she knows why the lords do not.

  
  


“Aye, he does at that. He’s a fool, but he’s a fool with reason for his follies. I won’t deny he saw things as a boy that anyone with a good heart might want to change. I remember the lad at ten, running about trying to get men to help the hedge knight he’d gotten into trouble. He learned to think things through after messes like that, and he cares - too damned much, but it’s better to work  _ with  _ him and make sure he doesn’t run roughshod over his lords trying to help the smallfolk. Your brothers acted like feckless idiots, and I don’t want a king like that. So we’ll have a look at this boy, see what’s what.”

  
  


_ And if you don’t like what you see, my lord? _ Rhaelle thinks but does not say. She is uncomfortably aware that she could be used as a figurehead - put her on the throne with Ormund, Almena installed as Lady of Storm’s End. She knows her foster father is thinking of the possibilities already, but she devoutly hopes Maegor passes muster with him. 

  
  


Rhaelle does not want to be Queen. The Stormlands suit her, and she would far rather be the Lady of Storm’s End than attempt to be the first Queen Regnant of Westeros. But if her father makes Maekar his heir, and does not succeed… It will be civil war, and the gods only know what Rhaelle will have to do then. It might be civil war anyway, if Jaehaerys and Shaera refuse to accept this. 

  
  


Rhaelle knows where she’ll stand - of her siblings, her loyalty is first and always to Daeron, who will  _ never  _ back Jaehaerys and Shaera. Duncan… She’s still so angry with Duncan, she still remembers being a terrified girl expecting abuse for her brother’s actions. 

  
  


That the Baratheons have always treated her as family speaks well of them, but Rhaelle is very aware it could have been different. Her father had known too, but he’d been trapped -  _ Duncan  _ should have known what he risked and subsided. She doesn’t know where Duncan will stand and she frankly doesn’t care.

  
  


And so. Maekar. Because if not Maekar, it will be Jaehaerys and Shaera. If Duncan supports their cousin, well enough. If not, that’s unfortunate.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


The oak is no heart tree, but Jo imagines it serves well enough - while a heart tree is best, oaks too are sacred trees, that is why there are some in every godswood where they can grow. Certainly it’s peaceful here in the heart of the Red Keep, but then why should it not be? No one has reason to come here but the Queen and her children, after all. Maekar says that Rhaelle and Daeron keep the old gods like their mother does, though their older brothers and sister do not. 

  
  


And this tree, was a gift from King Aegon to his wife. Her mother told her. _ “He could not import a proper weirwood, for taking one from the Isle of Faces would have been most unwise, even if it didn’t send his lords into a flutter. So he found her an oak, because they’re godly trees too, and because the pair of them fell in love under the oak trees at home, or so Betha always said.”  _

  
  


Jo can still remember her mother running the comb through her hair as she’d told her this story, like she told her countless other stories. It’s a ritual of theirs, and at night before bed her mother is less guarded. 

  
  


Which is why Jo alone knows of the cloths her mother coughs into, that come away spotted with blood. 

  
  


_ Oh _ , but she does not want to be here, does not want to be in the south when she fears so desperately that her mother will be gone before she returns. But she must be here, for Maekar who is every bit as much her brother as Ed is, she must be here to reassure her aunt that her mother is happy in the North, that she enjoys her life as Lady of Winterfell. And so Jocelyn Stark kneels before an oak tree that is the symbol of her aunt’s great love rather than a true symbol of their gods, and she prays. 

  
  


“Oh! I’m so sorry!” 

  
  


Jo leaps to her feet, spinning around with her hand fumbling for the dagger she is not wearing. At home, she never goes without it, but here in the Red Keep ladies do not go armed, so Jo had set her dagger aside. She regrets it now, even as she focuses on a tall young man, half-hidden in the shadow of a maple tree. “Who are you?” she demands with all the cool calm of a Stark, hiding behind it so this intruder won’t know how her pulse is racing. 

  
  


“My name is Jon Arryn,” he says, making a shallow, polite bow in greeting. “I’m the heir to the Vale. Who are you?” 

  
  


“Jocelyn Stark, only daughter of the Lord of Winterfell.” 

  
  


“Oh, you came with the new prince! Well met, my lady. I imagine we shall see a great deal of each other.” 

  
  


Jo frowns. “Why should that be?” 

  
  


“Because Maekar is my kin, and you are here as his foster-sister, yes? You will stay with him?” 

  
  


Jo shrugs, because she doesn’t know. She should go home, but if Maekar needs her too… How will she decide? Or will Father decide for her and Ed alike, his orders writ down and sent south by raven? “I may. That is surely for my father and for my royal aunt and uncle to decide.” Let this Arryn heir remember that she too has royal kin. 

  
  


“Of course. But my father and the King both wish me to become a companion to Prince Maekar so, while you are here, we shall see each other often enough.” 

  
  


“Well, then at least we have been introduced,” Jo says, and tries to make it sound like nothing, but even in the fading sunlight Jon Arryn’s eyes are bright blue, and it makes Jo want to smile back at him. Even with all her worries, it makes her want to smile.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


His uncle’s face is kind. 

  
  


That’s the first thing Maekar notices, when he’s conducted into the King’s solar. Aegon V has been - not the nightmare of his childhood, that would be a cruel and untrue thing to say. But a sort of… ghost, perhaps, a presence haunting him that he never truly understands. His mother calls his uncle  _ usurper _ , his foster parents call him  _ goodbrother  _ or  _ our royal goodbrother _ , and of course his best friends have as much right to call the King  _ Uncle  _ as Maekar himself. 

  
  


Some say Aegon V is half a peasant, but Maekar can’t see that, even in the simple clothes he wears. Simple but well-made, he dresses, in Maekar’s opinion, like a Northern lord, not a peasant. “Your Grace,” he says, bowing deeply.

  
  


“Come here. Let me look at you.” Maekar crosses to where his uncle stands by a bookshelf, looking up into eyes the same shade of purple as his own. Those eyes are not quite as kind as his smile, though they are warm. Warm, but searching, perhaps even a little wary. Maekar wonders what Aegon V sees in him, if he sees the uncertainty, the fear and the hope, reflected in eyes that match his own so well.

  
  


(His mother’s eyes are a darker shade, more blue-purple than violet, and he has always tried to tell himself it’s his grandfather’s eyes he has. But he’s never known for sure. Now he can say he has his uncle’s eyes, and so continue to pretend they aren’t most likely his father’s as well.)

  
  


“You favor your mother, and my uncle Rhaegel, I think,” Aegon says after a moment. “Sit down, Maegor.” 

  
  


“Maekar, Your Grace.” 

  
  


“I’m sorry?” 

  
  


“Lord Stark said there was no need to make a fuss of it, so I suppose he didn’t put it in his reports to you. I asked to be renamed as Maekar. I didn’t want - Maegor is not a good name to carry.” 

  
  


“Some would say Maekar isn’t either. Those who called my father kinslayer.” They are both seated now, King Aegon behind a desk of dark, heavily carved wood and Maekar across from him, his palms flat against his thighs so he won’t fidget. 

  
  


“It was an accident, wasn’t it?” 

  
  


“It was. I was there, and the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard as well. But that never stopped the whispers, alas. Still, my father was not a bad king, and his name will suit you better than that of Maegor’s. Tell me, Maekar. Do you know why you are here?” 

  
  


“My mother thinks you mean to place me in the succession,” Maekar says after a moment’s debate - honesty or caution? With this man, he thinks honesty, even if it’s dangerous. 

  
  


“And you? What do you think?” 

  
  


“I think… you have disinherited your sons, and your elder daughter. To choose Princess Rhaelle would mean either breaking her betrothal or giving the Baratheons a crown. So…” He’s thought about it on the voyage. His mother’s belief is, in truth, the only thing that makes sense. Well, one of two things. “I think that I am either here to be made your new heir, or to replace Princess Rhaelle with the Baratheons so that you can make her your heir.” 

  
  


For a moment, King Aegon just stares at Maekar, before breaking into soft bemused laughter. “It truthfully never occurred to me to trade you with Rhaelle. I don’t think Lord Lyonel would accept that, and you’re a bit young for his only daughter in any case. But your mother is correct. My father expected you to succeed him one day, and though the Council decided that an infant king was not what the realm needed… You are not a baby now. Nor are you quite a man grown, but I hope to live many years yet. So you will have time to grow up, and grow into being my successor.” 

  
  


Thinking it is one thing, Maekar realizes as he hears those words. Thinking it, hearing his mother say it or hearing Jo and Ed agree with him that it makes sense, these things are very different from hearing it directly from the King himself. To hear it from the lips of his uncle, his King… 

  
  


Well, it is very like how it had felt to kneel as Maegor Targaryen and rise again as Maekar, the oil on his head a strange cool slickness, and know that he will never quite be who he was before. He was the Crown Prince almost from the moment of his birth, his mother wrote to him again and again. And now he is the Crown Prince again. Prince of Dragonstone, now? He was never officially given that title as a baby, is it now to be his?

  
  


Maekar looks at his uncle and he knows nothing will ever be the same again.

  
  


<><><>

  
  


At least she has all of her children in one place, or will once Duncan arrives, and her niece and nephew are here as well. 

  
  


It isn’t that Betha entirely disagrees with her husband. Truthfully, her father would have done the same to any children who disobeyed as completely as their sons and elder daughter have done, and she knows why the crown can’t be settled upon Rhaelle. 

  
  


Rhaelle doesn’t want it in any case, and she says as much when Betha brings up the idea. “I’d go mad with it, Mother, truly. I’d far rather keep the Stormlands loyal to my cousin, and maybe try and have one of his children wed to one of mine, than try and be the first Queen of Westeros.” 

  
  


“You wouldn’t prefer to keep the Stormlands loyal for your brother?” Betha asks, trying not to bristle. 

  
  


“For Daeron, yes, but how can Father not punish Daeron when he’s punished Duncan, Jaehaerys, and Shaera?” 

  
  


It’s the specificity of her response which startles Betha. Her daughter is young still, near her wedding day but still a maid, yet there is a new sharpness in her eyes. Or, no, it isn’t so new, is it? It has been there since she was a girl of ten, told she must leave the Red Keep to serve as Lord Lyonel’s cupbearer, the future wife of his son, to make up for Duncan spurning Lady Almena Baratheon. “Only for Daeron?” she asks, and she has been Queen too long to allow her voice to waver. 

  
  


“At this point, Mother, yes. Daeron is the only one of my siblings worth being loyal to. Duncan cannot be relied upon, Jaehaerys is capable enough on his own but he’s ruled by Shaera and Shaera is  _ cruel _ , Mother. You know all of this as well as I do.”

  
  


She does. But what mother wants to admit such things of her children? “And Daeron? You disregard his claim only because you don’t think your father could name him successfully? What makes you so certain he can set aside his sons for his nephew?” Betha demands.

  
  


“I think that if there had been no Great Council, Maekar would have been king all along, and Father his regent and maybe his Hand once he came of age. So yes, if he wants to, I think Father can leave as heir the boy who some might once have said he usurped. And Daeron doesn’t want it, Mother. No more than I do. I don’t know if Maekar wants it, though I think he likes the idea more than either of us. It’s the best possible chance to prove he’s a better person than his father, and better by far than who Aerion  _ named  _ him for, after all.”

  
  


Jaehaerys wants the throne - well, Jaehaerys and Shaera want the throne, because that is the one way in which Betha sees herself and Aegon in their second son and elder daughter. As much as it turns her stomach to admit, they are partners in the same way. They planned, she knows, to rule as a pair, like the first Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. But her children are nothing like those great monarchs of old. Betha wants to believe that they can be, with time to temper Jaehaerys’ rigidity and Shaera’s cruel streak.

  
  


But she already knows, deep down, that age will only make these things worse.

  
  


She loves her children. She wants to see her son heir to the throne with her grandchildren to follow them. But that can never be for Duncan with a peasant for a bride, and with a mother’s way she senses it cannot be for Daeron either, for reasons that are entirely different. 

  
  


(She knows, after all, her son’s secret smile for his best friend, because it is her own smile, meant only for Aegon. She knows, but for all their sakes she does not let herself see.)

  
  


“You would have opposed them anyway, wouldn’t you, Rhaelle?” she asks, with a sudden chill of fear. 

  
  


“No,” Rhaelle says carefully. “I do not want a civil war, and I would not be the one to set off such a thing. But I would have kept my family far from court as much as possible, should it have become the domain of those two. My cousin… Well, there is time yet to see what he will prove to be, isn’t there?” 

  
  


After her daughter leaves, Betha is left alone to consider. She hadn’t expected this. She should have expected it. It’s always been this way, really. Duncan keeping a bit apart, solitary as ever. Jaehaerys and Shaera up to one thing or another, Daeron and Rhaelle ranged against them, from the most trivial disputes of child’s play to this. She could almost pity young Maegor - Maekar - for being caught between them. Almost.

  
  


Gods, why couldn’t her children have simply done as they were told?! Even she and Aegon defied no one when they wed. Prince Maekar, as he had been then, had not exactly been thrilled, and Betha’s own father was glad she’d wed a prince but still quietly disappointed she’d married one so far down the line of succession. Cousin Brynden had approved, though, and so King Aerys had done the same. They had married with permission, even if it had been somewhat irritated permission.

  
  


But they had still been a love match. Aegon had still declared to his father that Betha was the only woman he could ever marry, and Betha had gone to her father insisting that younger prince or not, Aegon was the very best of men, and perfect for her. She cannot fault her children for wanting what she and Aegon had all but demanded. She only wishes it had not come at such a price.

  
  


Maekar is Aegon’s concern. If he asks her for help in making the boy a proper heir, of course she will give it. But Betha’s task now is to ensure that her children do not fight amongst themselves for any cause, to calm Jaehaerys and Shaera and keep Rhaelle’s determination in check.

  
  


Her children may not reign, but she will not see them destroy each other either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me at eidetictelekinetic.tumblr.com!


	3. And the Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the announcement of Maekar's new position draws near, people on all sides maneuver for the future.

“You have to stand with us, Duncan!” Shaera demands, her voice shrill. “Father cannot be allowed to do this! You chose to give up your birthright for Jenny, he cannot  _ steal  _ it from Jaehaerys, not when we only did as Targaryens should do!”

  
  


Duncan, Prince of Summerhall, toys with his goblet of Arbor Gold as he considers how to answer his sister. Jaehaerys has not yet spoken, letting Shaera voice fury for the both of them, but he knows his brother well, knows the chill rage in those violet eyes. Both of his siblings are in a vicious temper over what their father has done, this much Duncan knows. 

  
  


What he is less certain of is his own opinion on the matter. For the truth is, he accepted his demotion, and counted it a small price paid for love. Sometimes it does still anger him, but he had always told himself that he could perhaps serve Jaehaerys in some capacity, and use all he had been taught in that way. As their grandfather Maekar had served his brother Baelor, so Duncan was prepared to serve Jaehaerys. 

  
  


And yet… 

  
  


He did not escape unscathed for his disobedience; what right have his brother and sister to suffer no consequences for theirs? 

  
  


“You had to know this might happen,” he says flatly, glad that Jenny chose not to come with him to his siblings’ chambers when Shaera’s expression turns poisonous. “I agree with you - your marriage was certainly more appropriate than mine, but you know Father. He thinks our family’s practice of incest has done more harm than good, and he’d given his word for our betrothals.” 

  
  


“His word to lesser men, whatever their titles,” Jaehaerys says, cool and quiet. “We are Targaryens, and rulers of this realm. We are within our rights to break our word. Father should have promised our cousins. Aunt Rhae and Aunt Daella’s children are only half-Targaryen, the daughters of lords, and more appropriate to wed the children of other nobles. And there is Maegor, he -” 

  
  


“Should have been sent to the  _ Wall _ , not to Winterfell,” Shaera hisses. “His father was a vicious madman, his grandfather a simpleton! He has no right to the Iron Throne! Have you heard that he’s taken to calling himself  _ Maekar _ , as if that will make anyone forget he’s born of madness.” 

  
  


Now, that is a fair argument. Not the part about their aunts’ children - their own fathers should choose their spouses before Father steps in. But it is true that Maegor’s bloodline is troubling. Duncan does not remember his Uncle Aerion clearly, for he was only a boy when the man died, and Father kept his family far from his vicious brother when he could. But what he does remember is being afraid, all the more so when his uncle had smiled. 

  
  


Still, Aunt Daenora is the daughter of Rhaegel, whose madness was gentle but certain, yet she is fearsomely clever and imperious with it. Great-grandfather Daeron was many times the man and king that his father Aegon the Unworthy was. So the defects of a father are not always repeated in the son. 

  
  


“He has every right to change his name, and I’m told that he did so by all proper ceremony,” Duncan finally says. “But you’re not wrong, to be concerned about his parentage.”

  
  


“So you will support us? You will tell Father this is ridiculous?” Shaera says, leaning forward eagerly in her chair. Jaehaerys, though, stays unmoving in his own seat, studying Duncan calmly. 

  
  


“He didn’t say that, Shaera. Did you, Duncan?” 

  
  


“No, I didn’t,” Duncan says, taking a deep breath. “I cannot simply tell Father that he is wrong. My credibility in such matters is nonexistent, after what I did. If you want Father to reinstate you as heir, Jaehaerys, then you must prove to him that you are the better choice. Maekar is half a boy still, an unknown. Use that against him.” 

  
  


“And what will you do?” his brother asks. 

  
  


Duncan sighs, and gets to his feet, setting his mostly-full goblet aside. “I will watch. And if I see good reason to tell Father that his new heir is unfit, then I will not hesitate to do so. But that is all I can promise for now.” 

  
  


He makes for the door, and his fingers curl around the handle before Shaera speaks. “I saw Jenny and her woods witch when you first arrived. Jenny is pregnant, isn’t she?”

  
  


Jenny has already lost two babies before they could be born, and so Duncan had not wanted to tell anyone until the pregnancy was advanced, likely to come to term and produce a healthy child. Still, he cannot deny the truth, so he says, “Yes. Jenny’s companion thinks it will be a girl.” 

  
  


“I am with child as well. We will announce it soon - I wanted to do it tonight, to stop Father, but Jaehaerys says it’s too early - and Jenny’s witch says I will have a boy. If you help us, your girl can marry our boy, and then a grandson we share will one day inherit the Iron Throne. Can Maegor grant you such a boon, Duncan? The right of the crown returned to one of your blood?”

  
  


Duncan turns back then, to see Shaera standing beside Jaehaerys’ chair, one hand on his shoulder and the other on her still-flat stomach. He thinks of Jenny, of the soft round to her belly only visible when she is undressed. Thinks of the daughter he already imagines constantly, with a crown on her head beside a kingly cousin. 

  
  


“I have to speak with Jenny,” is the only answer he has for such a temptation. 

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Maekar can’t deny that he’s nervous. According to Rhaelle - and meeting her in person for the first time had been a wonderful thing, he must admit - most of the court suspects anyway, but Uncle Aegon must declare it openly, and he’s chosen the feast tonight to do just that. There are representatives of all the great families of the realm here by now, grown up heirs or younger siblings or cousins of lords when the lords couldn’t come themselves.

  
  


None of them know him. They might disapprove of Duncan and Jaehaerys, how they both eloped in defiance of all promises, but they  _ know  _ the former Princes of Dragonstone. They watched Duncan grow to manhood expecting he would be king, watched Jaehaerys knowing he was next in line if tragedy struck. Now, Maekar knows, they will all look at him and see a stranger, a boy not yet a man grown, raised in the North to boot.

  
  


“Think you’ll have to prove you keep the Seven?” Ed asks, all but reading Maekar’s thoughts. It would be odd, except it’s almost common by now; they have grown up together after all. “Be asked questions by their High Septon and all?” 

  
  


“Probably,” Maekar says ruefully. “But I can handle that; even your own father thought it was important, and he has no time for septons normally. Or anything southern for that matter.” 

  
  


“Except for my lady mother,” Ed agrees with a soft laugh. “And the Blackwoods and their vassals are a little less southron than anyone else in the Riverlands, given that they keep the old gods. Did you know Daeron and Rhaelle do too? Jo came across Daeron in the godswood, though she also met your cousin Jon Arryn there.” 

  
  


“I did. Rhaelle told me in one of her letters.” Maekar runs a hand through his hair. “But septon or no, I was raised in your father’s household. I’m sure many of them will see me as more Northern than anything else, and to them, that may be a problem.”

  
  


“Well, that means you can’t marry Jo after all then.” Edwyle says this with a put-upon solemn face, and then they both start to laugh. When they’d been children together, it had been a little scheme the three of them cooked up so as to make Maekar a proper Stark. They had conveniently forgotten that Jocelyn would have been made a Targaryen, instead. 

  
  


“No, I can’t,” Maekar agrees, and he’s sorry for it, for a moment. Jocelyn and Edwyle are his best friends, after all, and to marry one of his best friends, to become kin to them both by such a marriage, well… That would be more than many of their class can hope for in a marriage. Now, he must marry at his uncle’s choice, and he would wager his bride will come from one of the great families of the Westerlands or the Reach. From what he understands, those are the two regions his uncle will most need to bind to the new arrangement, and so the guess is an easy enough one to make. 

  
  


He, absolutely, must accede to whatever choice is made for him - after all, he is only to inherit because his cousins did not obey. It’s not such a high price to pay, Maekar tells himself. Some of those who will be considered may be here tonight, which only makes him even more determined to make a good impression. 

  
  


He is dressed in Targaryen black and red, colors he has rarely worn together before now. It had been deemed unwise, after his claim was set aside; before now Maekar has always thought that if he were to have a personal badge, it would be a sky-blue dragon on black, an echo of his mother’s choice to use a Targaryen sigil in Arryn colors for her own badge. As such, he’s developed a habit of wearing sky blue and black, and it feels strange to lay aside the blue for red. 

  
  


The young man in the looking glass is a proper Targaryen princeling in all but the deep brown of his hair, and that is something Maekar has never been until now. 

  
  


“Done admiring yourself?” Ed teases, his reflection grinning at Maekar over his shoulder. It’s just what he needs, and so Maekar smiles back, rolling his eyes. 

  
  


“More or less,” he says with a lightness he doesn’t quite feel, and turns from the glass to walk toward the door. Ed falls into step beside him, as if they are back home at Winterfell, walking together from their bedchambers to dinner in the hall. For a moment, Maekar wishes that they were. 

  
  


Things were much simpler, at Winterfell. 

  
  


<><><>

 

Rhaelle, of course, is sitting with the Baratheons, the bannermen of the Stormlands around them. But one of those bannermen is the Lord of Tarth, and his wife is Rhaelle’s Aunt Rhae. She sits next to Rhaelle, her twins on her other side, and Rhaelle is just waiting for her aunt to start asking questions. 

  
  


But she doesn’t. That, in fact, is even more unnerving. Aunt Rhae is forever asking questions, it’s one of the many reasons why Uncle Nealan mostly leaves running their holdings to her. He’s happiest when keeping Tarth’s small defensive fleet in good shape or sailing to the Free Cities on behalf of the island’s trade post, most comfortable with a deck under his feet or amongst other sailors. Aunt Rhae is equally at ease with all the fiddly details of ruling, both the lord’s side and lady’s side of things, so she does that. 

  
  


They’re partners every bit as much as Rhaelle’s parents, every bit as much as she hopes she and Ormund will one day become. 

  
  


Aunt Rhae watches her kingly brother on the dais, eyes narrowed as he seats Maekar at his left hand. Mother, as his queen, is on Father’s right, but the left-hand seat is usually reserved for the heir to the throne. No official announcement has been made yet, no word given at all, but this first silent declaration is powerful. Down the table, Rhaelle sees Shaera move in her seat, and she wagers that her elder sister is on the verge of storming out. Only Jaehaerys’ hand on her arm keeps her still. 

  
  


Of course. Shaera is ruthless but hot-blooded with it; Jaehaerys can occasionally be talked down from the harshest measures but he is cold-hearted with everyone but Shaera. He will let no one see his fury, not here and now, not in public. No, in public he will be the perfect prince and expect Shaera to play along. 

  
  


“My brother courts a new Dance, and this with Blackfyres still on the watch,” Aunt Rhae murmurs in Rhaelle’s ear, making her jump. 

  
  


“He can’t just let Jaehaerys get away with it,” Rhaelle murmurs back. “Can he?” 

  
  


Rhae sighs. “Well, no. And you have your reasons for not wanting him to, don’t you, little cat?” 

  
  


It’s an old nickname, born out of the fact that when Rhaelle was little, she would escape from her septa and be found in ridiculous places that no one could understand how she got to, just like a cat. That, and Rhaelle likes cats, has always had at least one about her. She has three that sleep in her chamber at Storm’s End, in fact. 

  
  


But right now, Rhaelle can’t let that soften her. “Yes, Aunt Rhae. I do. And you should too.” 

  
  


After all, it’s something of an open secret in their family that Aunt Rhae’s twins Galladon and Alysanne, who have Aunt Rhae’s silver-gold hair and fine Valyrian features but are also possessed of ridiculous height and bright blue eyes… do not resemble their purported father, though Uncle Nealan is tall enough that their height could come from him. Their eyes can easily be mistaken for a Valyrian color - Aunt Daella’s eyes are blue, though a shade more like blue ice than summer skies. But the truth is they’re not Valyrian eyes at all.

  
  


They are Ser Duncan’s eyes. 

  
  


Uncle Nealan knows, Rhaelle is sure of that. She suspects he may prefer men, or maybe no one at all, because he and Aunt Rhae are the very best of friends but everyone in Tarth knows they never bed together and Uncle Nealan’s never taken a mistress. (Aunt Rhae has a mistress, but that’s no one’s business at all, and Rhaelle only knows because she saw them.) She learned that on a visit two years past. And Jaehaerys and Shaera… They disapprove. Perhaps they never would speak up, but they’d never give the twins any honor as kin, not ever. They’d probably disinherit them if they could. 

  
  


So Aunt Rhae has her reasons. 

  
  


“You are growing up far too fast,” Aunt Rhae says. “But you’re right as well. In truth, I’d prefer your father to reinstate Duncan, but I know he won’t. One dose of peasant blood shouldn’t be enough to lower the status of  _ Targaryens _ . But what’s done is done, and the gods know the noblemen would be up in arms over a peasant queen. Or even a peasant princess consort - I told your father he ought to try that compromise first, that Jenny never be queen but hold some lesser consort title. He said no.” 

  
  


That… wouldn’t have been the worst thing, Rhaelle reflects. She doesn’t trust Duncan, can never forgive him, and she knows far too little of Jenny to have any opinion of her at all. But Duncan would definitely have been a better king than Jaehaerys. He means well, usually, and he’d been responsible with regard to his duties as prince until Jenny, it’s just in personal matters where he’s never been reliable.

  
  


“Can you blame him, when people already call him half a peasant?” Rhaelle asks softly. 

  
  


“Hmph. I blame him for letting his sons go through with it. Both your brothers were previously betrothed, and Shaera too, which could easily have invalidated their elopements. Send Jenny away, insist Duncan and Jaehaerys marry immediately, a joint ceremony even, at the Sept of Baelor or below the Iron Throne, witnessed by a gathering just like this, and ship your sister right to Highgarden. Daeron and Olenna made their plan together, and if the older boys had done as they ought, that would’ve been fine on its own. But your father wanted to persuade them. And now…” 

  
  


Aunt Rhae trails off as Father gets to his feet, and gestures for Maekar to do the same. All around them, people fall silent as they too rise (none can sit while the King stands), exchanging looks. Rhaelle grits her teeth, because if this goes wrong… 

  
  


“After the sudden death of my father King Maekar, the Great Council selected me as King. Some of you were there, some of you are the heirs or kin of those who were present that day,” Father begins - no, not Father, this is all  _ King Aegon _ and that is not always the same person. “I believe that choice was made because our realm could not then risk the long minority that would come with a king who was a mere babe in arms. But my ascension was not the normal order of succession, and my own father expected a different heir.” 

  
  


A pause, as King Aegon puts a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “My father expected his grandson Maegor, born to his second son and his niece, to inherit his crown. I believe he would have understood why I accepted it instead, but I owe it to my father’s memory to leave his throne to the heir he wanted, and not to someone who already proved incapable of shouldering even the duties of being a prince, much less a king. So I declare before you all, that my heir is my nephew, born Maegor but renamed Maekar. Maekar, Prince of Dragonstone.” 


End file.
